Scattered Memories
by PrettyinPwn
Summary: A collection of GF one-shots and short stories that cover a vast array of topics and ideas: sentimental snapshots of the main characters' lives, fiction based on theories and AU's and minor characters, and a sprinkling of 'what-ifs' on top. Rated T for possible blood, slight gore, and swearing that may be in future additions.


_**Watering Flowers**_

Soaked to the bone, thunder rumbling into his ears, lightning lashing out like a white whip over the dark sea of green pines above, the young man trekked on. He'd intended to ride in his truck all the way up to the building, but the driveway - a long, winding dirt road through the Oregon woods - was now overgrown from neglect. What had been a beaten path ten years ago was now an ocean of tall grass and, with his luck, poison ivy and ticks hungry for flesh.

It did little to deter him, though.

Over rocks and mud and brush he stumbled and sank. He paused only once to make sure the large book under his navy coat was still dry and secure. Then, assured it was untouched by the rain, he continued on.

The house stood like a pyramid of wood in the distance, its distinct frame a sight for his sore eyes. A vivid memory struck him in this moment:

_Heavy luggage - filled with more books and mosquito repellant than actual changes of clothes - weighing down his small arms. Greasy brown hair clinging like wet ivy to his childish face. Dark irises peering ahead at the figure emerging from the cabin. Hands sweating in anticipation. The smell of the bus' thick exhaust and his sister's recent lunch of graham crackers and juice clogging his nose. Heavy steps of a man in his sixties drawing near. A woodpecker drumming in the distance. The salty taste of his lip as he gnashed it with his teeth. A pair of eyes not unlike his sister's and his own, save for their wrinkled frame, whisking down upon him…_

_And then a crooked, yellow toothed smile as the tall shadow above him grumbled, "You two kids know how to clean a toilet?"_

Back in the rainy present, the young man shook his head and cracked a grin. His great uncle, or as they'd called him, their 'Grunkle' Stan was the most cranky, grumpy, irrational, and cheap bastard he'd ever met. He remembered all the times the old coot had yelled at him and his twin sister for being too loud, or for monkeying with the merchandise in the gift shop he ran, or for slipping out when he wasn't looking to go monster hunting and coming back with a mess of scratches, bite marks, and various tatters in their clothing with their only explanation being, "Beaver attack."

Of course he didn't buy it. Nor did the twins buy it when he insisted that there was, in fact, absolutely nothing weird going on in the town of Gravity Falls. Still, there was a sort of silent agreement and acceptance between them. Stan would drag them into the bathroom, pull what seemed like a century old tube of antibacterial cream and a half empty box of 'My Little Horsie' bandages (which was Mabel's idea, of course) out of the medicine cabinet, sit the twins down on the closed toilet, and hum some old tune while he patched them up. Then they'd migrate to the kitchen, eat Stan's signature dish - scrambled meat and half-cooked elbow noodles - and finally, after hours of terrible movies or a night of rambunctious card games, two of them would go to bed.

The chime Mabel had made for their uncle all those years ago as a parting gift was dangling from a rotted eave, twinkling in the wet morning wind and playing a bright song in greeting. The smell of ancient pine and the sound of footsteps filled the air as his feet met the front porch. He half expected it to bend from his weight, as he was a little heavier at twenty-two than he'd been at twelve, but the wood stubbornly stood strong despite its age. It took a few tries, but eventually his key cut its way into the front door's handle, flakes of rust coating his fingers as he did so.

After hearing the satisfying click of a turning lock, he headed inside.

Not much had changed in the Mystery Shack. Merchandise and bizarre baubles still lined the shelves of the shop. The second floorboard from the door still protested with a creak when walked on. Dust still glittered in the air like sepia-toned snow and many-legged creatures still skittered in its darkest corners.

"Grunkle Stan?" he called. There was no answer. As he dabbed a finger at a nearby bobblehead, he yelled once more. "Grunkle Stan!?"

"Yeesh, kid, quiet down! You're gonna give me another heart attack!"

He twisted around in surprise. Out of the living room emerged the hunched shape of a man, one wrinkled, age-spotted hand clutching the doorframe and his other wrapped around his signature 8-ball cane.

The young man rolled his eyes, relief flooding his body simultaneously. "You're still a crabby old geezer, I see."

Stan raised his brow, faded brown irises stealing a glance over his nephew's frame. "And you're still a twitchy wimp with a voice like a squeak toy. Where's your sister?"

"She'll be here in a few hours." Dipper replied, attention more focused on a mouse that had ran past his foot.

"Why so late?"

"She took her last final for the semester this morning. Mine was yesterday."

"What's she majoring in?"

"Art."

"And you? Some science-ey crap, right?"

The young man's cheeks had been tainted by a slight blush. He rubbed his arm and muttered, "Um… nuclear physics?"

The elder chuckled. "Well, at least Mabel will have kids."

By the time the youth was done sputtering out incoherent ramblings and insistences that he would, in fact, have children some day, Stanford realized that his great nephew hadn't changed a bit. Sure, his hair was a tad darker and longer and he was taller and his jawline a bit more square, but on the inside?

He was the awkward. fearful child that he remembered and - not that he would admit it - loved like the son he never had. Stanford walked forward, a slight limp in his leg, and patted the young man's shoulder with a cold hand. "I'm sure you'll make a great nuke physics… person?"

"Nuclear physicist."

"That's what I meant."

The two spent the next few hours in the gift shop catching up, the rain outside fading to mist as the Sun peeked over the mountains. He told his great uncle how the rest of the Pines family was doing and what he'd personally been doing since they'd last met. Stan 'mm-hmmed' and nodded through his overly detailed descriptions and rather - no offense to his nephew - boring stories, but he didn't mind much. However, there was one thing that he hadn't explained that Stanford was just dying to hear the answer to.

"So," the elder interjected and looked to his nephew, who was now sitting on the barrel next to the counter and brushing dried mud off of his jeans. The young man paused to glance up at Stan, who was giving him a sly smile.

"What?"

"Still keeping up on what you promised me you'd keep doing?"

"Bathing regularly?"

An eye roll. "The other thing I made you promise to do?"

"Oh… you mean-?"

"Yes, that. And did you bring the deed this time?"

Dipper unzipped his coat and brought out the large book he'd been carrying close ever since he left California. Golden hinges glinting in the afternoon light, the maroon journal hit the counter with a loud thunk. The young man beamed as his uncle flipped open the pages and nodded approval.

"Journal 5, eh?" Stan paused to take a sheet of paper from the book's center and read it over; it was a diagram of Sasquatch footprints Dipper had doodled the other day after finding some in the woods.

"I'm almost done. I just have a few more pages before I start on the sixth."

"You've been writing any of this in invisible ink?"

The young man dug a fancy pen with a chewed up end out of his pocket and tapped the button its side. Out burst a black light that revealed a slanted, messy scrawl of a story. Dipper clicked the light back off rather quickly, but the short time the old man had been able to peer at its contents was enough to form a rough synopsis; something about studying up on spirits and understanding why they tended to remain in certain places. According to his nephew, it was because it was either connected to where they died or where they were the happiest in life.

Stan gave a small nod. "Smart kid."

"Well, I don't mean to brag, but-"

There was a knock at the door. But it wasn't until they saw a bright pink sweater sleeve and heard a screechy, "Hello!?", that they knew who it was.

"It's unlocked!" Dipper yelled back.

Mabel came crashing in with about a million things in her arms: groceries, sparkling crafting supplies, textbooks, and luggage. Dipper went to her side instantly and took some things from her. "Hey, hey, don't kill yourself!"

Her face twisted with exaggerated irritation. "You could've waited for me out by your truck like you said you would!" she paused to toss him the rest of what she'd brought and put her hands on her hips. "And did you bring the deed? And deodorant?"

"Yes and… yes." he muttered, arms hurting from the unexpected load of junk she'd just thrown at him. "Why'd you bring so much crap?"

"Well, we're living here all Summer, aren't we?"

"Yeah, but did you need to bring, like, five hundred sweaters?"

"Doesn't she always?" Stan interrupted.

Mabel swiveled around and, surprised to see their great uncle there, ran to him with arms wide open. But before she could lock him in her signature death-grip, her face fell and she stopped a foot away from him like a deer that'd been caught in a headlight's gaze.

"Mabel-" Stanford started.

"Sorry, I…" she brushed her hair behind her ear, eyes hitting the floor. "I forgot."

Stan's brow furrowed. "Nah, it's… it's alright, kid."

While his twin sister and great uncle sat in an awkward silence, Dipper headed upstairs and dumped her luggage in the hall, not sure what bedroom she was gonna claim. He remembered it being easier when they were twelve and could still share the attic room, but… puberty made that a little difficult and awkward, now. A smile lit up his face as he strolled past his uncle's room. The sign on the door that read, "NO MINORS ALLOWED", was there, and below it a photo of him when he was twelve. Though browned in spots and smothered with dust, he could still make out the words, "THAT MEANS YOU!", below his preteen mug.

By the time came back downstairs, the other two were locked in a new conversation. While they bickered about whether or not Mabel could change anything about the interior decorating in the Shack, Dipper took a bunch of legal papers that'd been tucked inside the journal and started organizing them.

"You know we're at least gonna fix this old place up a bit, Stan."

The old man crinkled his nose. "Yeah, but just don't let your sister add any unicorn paintings or bedazzled curtains."

"I was thinking more along the lines of some actual color, Grunkle Stan. This place looks like a dungeon!"

"I prefer the term 'subdued', thank you very much."

"Ugh!"

The twins and Stan then spoke of how the house had fallen into disrepair - worse than it'd been normally - since he'd moved to a nursing home in the nearest town a seven years ago. They were to replace all the rotten wood and shingles, first. Then they'd head on to general cleaning. Dipper having designed extra safety measures for making sure no one besides them could access the area beyond the vending machine, they made securing it their third priority. And their fourth? Getting the shop and the tours running again and turning the old building into the Mystery Shack it once was.

"You kids sure you can handle all this work?"

Mabel enthusiastically pulled her brother close and beamed. "Of course! The Mystery Twins always are ready for a challenge! And besides, now that Dipper doesn't have noodle arms anymore-"

He frowned. "Which I never _did_."

"Don't lie to yourself, Dipper. Anyways, we'll be fine. We'll have this dingy old dump sparkling like a-" she paused to slam her boot down upon a large centipede that'd crawled near her foot. After there was a gut-wrenching crunch, she lifted her shoe from the pile of guts and continued, "-a palace in no time!"

Stan presented them a genuine smile, the perpetual dull ache in his chest flaring as he did so. He wasn't one to get all gooey and heartfelt, but he had to admit it: these kids were something special. Not only were they visiting him, but they were staying the Summer and fixing up his house and bringing the Mystery Shack back to its former glory and-

"Well, we'd better go get our stuff. I don't want anyone breaking into my truck."

"Or my Beetle." Mabel added.

"And we need to buy more food."

"And tools and wood and nails and other house-fixing stuff."

Leaning on his cane, feeling suddenly heavy, Stan murmured, "I hate to ask this, since you two knuckleheads are already doing so much for me, but on the way to town…" he tilted his head back a bit and pretended his sight wasn't getting blurry with tears and that it didn't hurt to push his voice through his throat. "Could you…?"

There was a long pause. Dipper's brow furrowed. "Could we what?"

"Could you water the flowers for me?"

The twins gave him a weird look, but then realization set in. A short nod from both of them ensued, and then, almost as quickly as they'd come in, they left, leaving the elderly man to sink back into the warm shadows of the living room and rest, in peace, once more.

—-

"Are you sure you know where you're going?"

"'Am I sure I know where I'm going?'?" the male twin repeated sarcastically, eyes rolling. "Mabel, do you know just how many times I've been there?"

Her features twisted with a little pang of hurt. "I know. Grunkle Stan said you go there a lot."

"He did?"

"Mm-hmm."

The blue truck grumbled as it climbed up a steep road, its sibling passengers quiet. The woods outside mirrored their silence, save for a whispering of the early, sweet Summer breeze and a few bright chirps from the denizens of the woods. Mabel, hands sliding deeper into her sleeves, looked at her brother once every few minutes and tried to find comfort in his presence. However, his face had adopted a solemn, pale sheen and his mouth was ever so slightly trembling. Having been stuck with him since birth, she knew better than to push him with inconvenient words when he was in this state of mind.

Thankfully, the rusted iron gates were unlocked. They rolled on through and, once arriving near their destination, began to search for it, heads turning every which way and gazes scanning over row upon row of tall, lichen-smothered stones.

Standing out amongst them was one that was young, surface still glossy and lacking the moss and mold that the others had adopted over the years. The twins left the truck without a word.

They walked through the dewy grass. Smells of earth and fresh rain clogged their noses. The Sun dangled brightly in the blue sky above. Dipper made a beeline for the stone and Mabel, knowing it was her turn, headed for the nearest spout, removed the empty milk carton that hung to it by a rotted rope, and filled it with water.

"Be careful, Mabel. Don't break the stems-"

"I know how to water plants, Dipper." she murmured.

He slid his hands in his pockets and watched her pour it over the pot of winding morning glories, delicate lily-of-the-valley, and the single white iris standing tall in the middle. When she was done, she took some steps back, carton hanging from her fingers by the rope, and just stared at the stone.

Dipper wrapped his arm around her. She let her head rest on him. Together, they huddled in the company of each other and braved the cool afternoon. Meek sunlight trickled through the pine boughs above and rippled on their brown hair. Mountain air filled their heavy lungs. The name on the stone weighed heavy on their hearts.

After a long while, the brother let his arm release its tight grip on her and patted her back. Then, he took the carton from her, returned it to its spout, took his seat in his truck, started the car, and waited a few minutes.

His sister hadn't budged an inch.

He peeked his head out the window. "Mabel, you coming!?"

She wiped the wetness from her eyes, flipped around, and cast him a huge grin. "Yup! My leg was just a little numb!"

"Of course it was."

The young woman threw her burdening emotions to the wind and jogged to the truck, the grass waving and soaking her flats and socks with dew as she ran past. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the car and she leaped inside, but…

She peered through the window's dirty glass at the gravestone and, even though she told herself not to, read its face one last time:

_STANFORD R. PINES_

_April 14th, 1952 - June 18th, 2018_

_"The best brother, uncle, and great uncle anyone could ever ask for."_


End file.
